


What the Water Gave Them

by always_a_birthday_girl



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton Short Order Cook, Genius Next Door, M/M, Sassy Diner Owner Tony Stark, based on a Regina Spektor song, circus AU, cop steve rogers, idk what Bucky is but he wants to bone Steve pretty badly, its a good song you should listen, lots of coffee, the Incredible Hulk is actually incredible, there is some sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 20,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_birthday_girl/pseuds/always_a_birthday_girl
Summary: The circus blows in, bringing change with its myriad of performers and haunting music--though Tony knows better. Tony knows the change really started when Bucky Barnes took up the corner booth and lit a cigarette, fully intending to never leave. welcome to the end of the line.





	1. intro/prelude and hello to Tony's Diner/one/the beginning though no one knows it yet

If you follow the I-56 to its natural close, all the way to the end of the line, you’ll find (in the belly of old Americana, where the towns are built of the dust of ages past and the fierce, narrow-minded determination of its citizens to survive despite The Corporations) an itty-bitty collection of houses and stores that almost passes as a community, and if you follow their Main Street to its end, you’ll find Tony’s Diner.

There, you can get a cup of coffee for a dollar, a donut for fifty cents, and all the gossip in the world. Tony, the owner and progenitor of the place, is always there, ready to serve up burnt joe and a heavy helping of sarcasm.

Every booth has at least one seat worn nearly to the point of tearing, and the tables are always sticky no matter how many times they’re wiped down with equally sticky rags. The food is nothing to write home about, but it’s the only joint in town. Stepping inside is like stepping out of time itself; sitting in a booth by one of the large, grimy windows, you might just get the sense that this is hell--nothing moving, nothing changing, and no noise save the endless stutter of the fan by the broken register and the occasional ding of the bell above the door when a customer comes in or goes out.

The waitress, a slim girl with heavy makeup and dyed hair, who gives the impression--as do most of the teenagers here--of wanting to be just about anywhere else in the world, earns tips by guessing your order before you place it, and the stocky short-order cook likes nothing more than to tear out of the kitchen the second he gets a sniff of a complaint. He likes to remind people they can always go eat somewhere else, knowing full well that they can’t.

It’s in this dreary, unchanging atmosphere that Bucky Barnes finds himself sitting, gnoshing on a mostly uncooked hunk of fried chicken and watching the interactions of the staff. He lights a cigarette, minding the Smoking Encouraged sign above the counter, and just stays there.  
He stays there for ever and ever.

 

* * *

 

 

“Circus is coming back to town,” Wanda says, turning a page in the local rag and raising her eyes to gauge Tony’s reaction.

He hums, busy tallying the sales of the day. Red ink, black ink; the success of his business rises and falls with the times, while people talk Recession and Depression and--sometimes--War. Economic hardship doesn’t touch Tony’s Diner, though. That would mean change.

“Maybe I’ll join,” she goes on, and looks at him again.

He mumbles something about giving a two weeks' notice before she does anything dumb, and she rolls her eyes, sliding off the bar stool and going into the kitchen, where Clint will no doubt give her a more satisfying reaction.

The purchase of a new cash register tumbled them nearly two dollars into the red, but the new busboy bought a pancake breakfast this morning before his shift, and that bolstered them back up. Tony taps his pen against the accounts ledger, taking in the number of meals that Clint has not paid for, and rolls his eyes. He should instate some kind of policy. He won’t, but he should.

The door chimes open, and Steve comes in. Tony reflexively checks the Felix the Cat clock on the wall; seven a.m. sharp. Commissioner Rogers’ militaristic schedule strikes again.

Wanda’s already setting two china mugs at the man's favorite table, and Clint ventures out a second later with a steaming tray of fried everything and a wink for Deputy Romanoff, who ignores him as usual. The two officers--the only police force in town--sit at the table, and Tony brings Romanoff her glass of orange juice, sliding into the booth on Steve’s side.

“Morning, all,” he says.

Natasha groans, massaging her forehead with both hands. “Do you know when this idiot dragged me out of bed?” she demands, in lieu of a greeting. “I’ll tell you. Three a.m. No one should be functioning that early. _No one_.”

“You’d be fine if you hadn’t embarked on that caffeine purge,” Steve remarks, clinking his coffee mug against Tony’s. “How’s tricks, old friend?”

“Same as yesterday,” Tony replies. “Which was the same as the day before that, and the day before that.”

“Here’s some excitement for you,” Steve says, pulling a newspaper out from his belt. He tosses it in front of Tony. “Circus is coming.”

“I heard,” Tony groans. “Wanda wants to join.”

Steve and Natasha both grin.

“They’ll be setting up in that field up the ways,” Steve says. “‘Bout a half mile from here, so you’ll see them a lot. Let me know if they give you any trouble, you hear me? I’m never far.”

“You expecting trouble?” Tony asks.

Natasha shrugs, answering for her partner. “We’ve heard things,” she says. “Along the grapevine. Might be nothing, might be something. Lord knows we never see action ‘round here, but it's best to be prepared.”

“Worst case scenario, we’ve got a few thieves,” Steve adds. “Nothing we can’t handle. But I know you’ve been struggling.”

Tony shrugs. “Been struggling all my life, Rogers, but I'm here regardless. Don’t worry about me.”

“Aw, but he wouldn’t know what to do if he wasn’t worrying ‘bout you,” Natasha teases, sliding a mess of eggs over to her side of the table and digging in. “Not like there’s much else to keep him busy.”

“She’s got a point,” Steve says, slinging his arm over the back of the booth, his hand brushing Tony’s shoulder. “I’ll be back here by noon, just you wait. Gonna spend my afternoon enjoying some of those donuts.”

Tony sits back and grins, allowing himself to be coerced into eating by his friends, who talk easily around him. He lets his mind wander from the fluctuating ledger waiting back on the counter, and enjoys his coffee. There’s nothing to worry about, just like he told Steve. Everything’s exactly as it’s always been, and exactly as it always will be.

Time passes fast when he’s with them, and Steve and Natasha’s plates are empty before he knows it. Steve covers a burp with his fist and says, “We should get going, at least look like we’re trying to do our jobs.”

Nat chuckles. “Need help with the dishes before we go, Tony?”

Tony waves her off. “Naw, picked up a new bus boy. He’ll do it.”

“You hired someone?” Steve asks, interested. “How’d that happen? You were dead set against bringing anyone else in.”

Tony shrugs. “Kid came in a week ago, sat in that booth over there,” he points across the room. “He was just . . . there. Wanda chatted with him, y’know how she does, and he started helping her out with the tables. Next thing I know, he’s out back washing dishes, and then emptying the garbage--which Clint never does--and fixing that damn leaky sink in the bathroom. Figured I might as well pay him, if he’s gonna do all that.”

Steve whistles. “Wonders never cease,” he says. “Well, you tell him welcome from me, and I’m sure I’ll see him around.”

“Sure thing,” Tony says, and Steve grabs his hat and leaves.

Nat lingers a second, eyes on the back, and Tony tells her, “He’s waiting for you.”

But he isn’t talking about Rogers, and they both know it.

“He’s patient,” she replies, turning for the door.

“Not ‘til the end of time,” he calls after her, but she just waves her hand, hips swaying too exaggeratedly to be real, emphasizing the gun on her belt (which, as far as he knows, she’s never had to use).

“See you tomorrow, Tony,” she says.

“See you tomorrow,” he echoes.


	2. the second stroke of a clock, tumbling towards midnight

Clint’s chopping veggies for omelettes when Wanda ducks out back, clutching her tray to her chest like a life preserver, and he looks up all concerned and nearly slices his finger off.

“Careful!” she exclaims.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he bluffs, but he sets down the knife nevertheless and stops to wipe his bleeding finger on his apron. “What’s eating you?”

She shrugs. 

Well, she doesn’t really have to tell him. He knows, just like he knows this: “He’s never gonna notice you, kid. No princes to swoop in and save you, not in this town.”

She pushes her dark hair behind her ears, scowls at him; still pretty, still young. No amount of temper can take that away from her, just like no amount of will can keep time from stealing it. 

“I know that,” she says sourly. 

Clint’s one to talk, anyway. He’s the sap who’s been in love with the same woman for fifteen years, since Wanda was nothing but a toddler riding a Big Wheel. His best friend's a teenage girl and he works _here_ , of all places, and he waits and waits for his life to get back on track but he's afraid this is it, and the nearly-one-year-detour he's taken will be his path from now on.

“Heard about the circus?” he asks, to change the subject.

“Heard they’re setting up a tent down the road,” she replies. “Gonna be big--they might stay the winter here.”

“Business’ll be good with a circus in town,” Clint tells her, picking up his knife again. “God knows Tony could use that.”

“Is it that bad?” she asks, and he laughs.

“It’s always bad, kid. Tony couldn’t add his way out of a second-grade worksheet.” He snorts and shakes his head and goes back to his chopping. “Been working here seven years and I’m yet to see a paycheck that isn’t short, or over, or bounces at the bank . . . I’ve told him time and again, he needs someone to manage his accounts. He doesn’t need a fucking busboy.”

He tosses the last comment at the busboy, who's innocently scrubbing a frypan next to him and pretending not to be there at all.

But at the remark, the boy--he called himself Bucky, Clint belatedly recalls--glances up, blowing his shaggy hair out of his eyes impatiently. “You liked me well enough when I was doing your job for you,” he retorts. 

Wanda grins, and Clint snickers, just as happy to laugh at himself as anyone else. “You keep that fire in your tongue,” he says, pointing his knife at Bucky, “and one of these days it’ll rebel and burn you up.”

The boy’s face goes sober, too sober, and though he’s only a few years older than Wanda he looks like he’s ninety if he’s a day. “Already has,” he says shortly, and goes back to scouring the pan. 

“Circus’ll be good for us,” Clint says, half to himself. “A little laughter and brightness goes a long way.”

“You’re rambling, old man,” Wanda says dryly, and comes over to hand her tray to Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hel- _lo_ , this is your local chatty writer thanking you for taking a chance on the second chapter. You're so much cooler than all those other people who hit the "back" button. ;)
> 
> on a _totally_ unrelated note, while I basically think my writing's the shit, I'm pretty sure other people think it's just plain shit, so constructive criticism is welcome!! If you don't like something, let me know!


	3. like snake strikes in the dark

“Like you said to Tony, you’ll be back to the diner soon enough,” Nat says, frowning out at the empty field before them. “Isn’t much to do here--we cleared out the trees last time the carnies came through.”

“We can set up a perimeter,” Steve replies. He likes setting up perimeters; makes him feel like a real police officer. Aren’t many prettier sights than yellow Caution tape fluttering in the wind.

“We can set up a perimeter,” Natasha agrees with a longsuffering sigh. She’s used to his quirks by now, he thinks, but that doesn’t mean she likes them. Nat’s born and bred here, not like Steve. Steve came from a metropolis of glass buildings and silver monorails, a shining city that he hated for its clamor and smog and crowds; Steve came from a big city, but he was born to live here, in this town. But sometimes he slips, and the big city in him comes out.

“Well, just so folks know something exciting’s coming,” he says. “Like a preview. Might help drum up business for the show.”

“People come to see a circus or they don’t,” she says. “There isn’t much to sell.”

She helps him drive stakes into the ground around the field, though, and wind warning tape around and between them in tight stripes. When they’re done, they’ve managed to cordon off the entire half-mile space, and Steve’s jonesing for another cup of coffee.

“To the diner?” he suggests.

Nat, as he expected, refuses. “I’m going to call on Mrs. Sedgewick, haven’t heard from her in a few,” she says. “You go on.”

Steve checks his watch. “It’s half-ten,” he observes. “Clint will be on his smoke break.”

“I’m busy,” she declares. “And it’s your turn to keep him company.”

“That’s what you said yesterday,” he reminds her. “And the day before that, and so on. It’s always my turn.”

“Yes, because that’s how things are,” she says. “That’s just how things are.”

“You’ll have to see him sometime,” he presses.

“Who says I’m avoiding him?” she counters. “I’m busy, that’s all.”

“With what?” he asks. “Nothing ever happens.”

Natasha scoffs at him. “Plenty happens,” she says. “You just don’t have your eyes open.”

She refuses to budge, and he goes back to Tony’s alone.

 

* * *

 

 

“All hail the conquering hero!” Tony shouts from the back when he enters, which makes no sense until Tony himself emerges, a can of ant spray in one hand and a tub of flour in the other. “I speak prematurely, of course,” he says, and thrusts the objects into Steve’s grasp. “Go outside and ant-proof my building, I’ve had enough of those little black suckers.”

“You could call the exterminator,” Steve suggests.

“Lang?” Tony cries. “All he does is ask the ants to go away--literally. He crouches down and talks to the buggers, the crazy bastard. No, you’ll be more successful. Now go; earn that coffee I shower you with.”

“And make me pay for,” Steve adds under his breath, but he goes out anyway and half-heartedly starts to spray the foundation of Tony’s Diner, which is cracked and home to several varieties of weeds, fungi, and insects. It’s a wonder the thing stays upright.

He makes it around to the back of the building, nearly crashes into the Dumpster, works himself around it, and finds himself face to face with a man who is not Clint, having a smoke exactly where Clint should be at ten-thirty-three in the morning.

But he’s clearly not Clint. He’s younger, his hair is long and black, and he looks at Steve with an expression that, on Clint, would make Steve very uncomfortable. There is a long silence while Steve forgets what he was doing and the other man forgets he’s holding a cigarette and nearly burns a hole through his already worn jeans.

“I’m twenty-one,” the man blurts out, just as Steve asks, “Who are you?”

They stare at each other for another minute.

“Why did you tell me your age?” Steve asks, at the same time the young man decides to reply, “Bucky.”

After a pause, Bucky adds, “You’re a police officer. I figured you were coming around to bust me for smoking since I’m not really twenty-one.”

“How’d you know I’m an officer?” Steve asks.

“Your uniform.” Bucky snubs out his cigarette and rolls his eyes. “You aren’t very bright, are you?”

Steve scowls. “Neither are you--you just admitted to a crime I wasn’t even accusing you of.” He holds up the canister of ant spray. “I’m only doing Tony a favor.”

Bucky purses his lips. “You’re off-duty, then. You can’t arrest me.”

“I’m not trying to arrest you,” Steve says, exasperated. “I’m trying to kill some ants.”

“Ah.” Bucky lights another cigarette. “Insecticide. The opiate of the masses.”

“Non sequitur,” Steve observes. “You’re assuming that doing battle with these ants is making me happy.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Do I look like I’m happy?” he demands. “I’d much rather be inside, enjoying the coffee I came here for.”

Bucky takes a drag of his cigarette, the end flaring bright orange. “But you’re smiling,” he declares.

Steve reaches up to feel his face. Yup, there it is: a smile. When did that get here? “Well, you see,” he begins. “It’s because I rounded this Dumpster here expecting to find a curmudgeonly short-order cook fast approaching middle age, and instead found myself in an argument with a gorgeous not-yet-twenty-one-year-old. Anyone would be happy.”

Bucky snorts, and offers him a smoke.

Steve gracefully accepts.


	4. four, four, four, four

There’s a lake behind Natasha’s house, and it makes up the entire west border of the town, with Tony’s Diner to the south and I-56 running north. Everywhere runs north from here--it’s the end of the line. Nat spends most of her mornings (the ones that Steve doesn’t use the spare key under the gnome in her garden to break into the house and wake her up) looking out across the water.

She sits on her back porch in her bathrobe, brushing her teeth with one hand and towel drying her hair with the other. It’s still dark, the frogs in the shallows croaking and whistling their love songs, and the peeling paint on the wood under Natasha’s feet is cold. It’s the kind of chilly that has a damp, unpleasant edge to it and promises a humid day later on, when the sun finally makes its slow way around to her side of the universe. 

She hears the squelch of footsteps coming around the house, so it isn’t unexpected when Clint vaults over the railing and onto the porch.

She still swears at him.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says. Even in the dim light, she can see the flush of his cheeks. He must be on his way to work, but his hair is mussed in a hundred different directions and he’s in a stained t-shirt and ragged jeans. 

Nat suppresses a sigh. “I’ve been busy,” she delivers the party line effortlessly, with just the right shade of impatience and exhaustion. She should have been an actress, a red-clad Hollywood star singing in night lounges and living off martinis and cherry stems. But instead she was born here, will live here, will die here one day. 

“Bull _shit_ ,” Clint calls her out on the lie at once. Clint’s good at seeing through her lies; that’s why she’s been avoiding him. That, and the events of September 7th of last year. 

September 7th.

Her current theory is that, if she eliminates anything from her life that reminds her of that day, it won’t have actually happened. And since the only way she can make it through a week without throwing herself in that lake is by vehemently telling herself that September 7th of last year forgot to come around, and Clint was central in her life on that day, she’s forced to pretend that he doesn’t exist, either. 

She yanks open the screen door and heads inside, hearing him catch the door and follow her. Ignoring him, she goes into her bathroom and spits out her mouth of toothpaste, rinsing her brush. 

“You gonna say anything?” he asks, leaning on the doorframe. 

She's got plenty to say, none of it nice. She puts her toothbrush in its holder, gives her hair one last rub with the towel, and throws it in the laundry basket. Stripping off her bathrobe, she begins to get dressed. 

He whistles. She continues to ignore him. 

“Tony cut me off at the diner,” he says. “He said no more pancakes ‘til I start paying. And you know I’m flat out broke.”

Clint lives in what can be constituted as the downtown, in a derelict apartment above Rhodey’s Hardware. Most of his meals come out of a can and he’s worn the same four pairs of socks for two years, and somehow, despite working nearly fifty hours a week, is always flat-out broke. 

“Okay if I grab something from the kitchen?” he asks.

She fixes him with a stern look. It’s a _don’t-you-dare look_ , dripping with disapproval and outright hostility, and being Clint, it completely goes over his head. She can’t tell if he’s dense or just determined to impose whether she wants him there or not. 

“Alright then,” he says, sounding pleased, and disappears down the hall. A second later, she hears him banging open her cupboards, pulling out pans and opening and closing the fridge noisily. 

Nat seizes a towel from the rack on the wall, buries her face in it, and screams. 

“You okay?” Clint calls. 

She lifts her head. “GO FUCKING DIE!” 

There’s a significant pause, then he replies, “Yup. You’re fine. C’mon down when you’re ready, I’m frying up a mess of eggs and I can’t eat them all myself. Well, I probably could, but I don’t want to be rude.”

“Then go away!” she shrieks, but--of course--he doesn’t. 

She angrily yanks a tank top over her head, tucking it into the waistband of her pants, and flings herself out of the bathroom, stomping down the hall. 

Clint is, as he said, frying up a mess of eggs. He’s also boiling potatoes, frying bread, and whisking a bowl of what looks suspiciously like pancake batter. Nat stops in her tracks, diverted from her anger by the shock of how little time it took for him to turn her kitchen into a breakfast battle zone. 

“What are you doing?” she demands. “We can’t eat all that.”

Clint grins. “Sure we can.” He picks up a spatula and hands it to her. “Here, mind the eggs and bread--I’m going to whip out these pancakes real quick.”

“As long as that’s all you whip out,” she mutters before she can catch herself, and he laughs out loud.

She forgot the sound of his laugh until this second. It disturbs her house, which has fallen into mausoleum silence in the past year. It disturbs _her_. 

He’s all sound in her head; the clink of the utensils he flips and spins with impunity, the shuffle of his feet in ratty sneakers, the little whistle under his breath as he works. He’s all sound, and she’s used to silence.

She glances at the clock. It’s quarter-past five. “Aren’t you going to be late?”

“I’m going on strike,” he declares. “They aren’t going to feed me, I’m not going to work.”

She snorts, nudging the burning eggs with her spatula. “You can’t afford to lose your job, Clint.”

He mimes having a heart attack, clutching his chest and staggering back, grabbing the counter for support. “Is that concern I hear? Concern, from you?” 

“Shut up,” she mumbles, half-heartedly pushing the eggs around. 

He smiles. Somehow, even that manages to be noisy.


	5. some things are better than this

Steve drops a dollar bill beside his empty coffee mug and slides out of the booth. 

“Going already?” Tony asks, surprised.

“Going already,” Steve confirms, taking steps to convince himself that it isn’t because he noticed the new bus boy ducking out for a mid-morning break. “If you see Nat, tell her to get her ass into work.”

“If you see Clint, tell him the same,” Tony gripes. “I had that kid, Bucky, on the stove all morning.”

“Must be why the food was edible today,” Steve says lightly, and then, “I’ll let him know if I see him. Clint, I mean.”

“Sure, sure,” Tony says, waving him away. “I’ll keep an eye out for your partner.”

Steve heads out of the diner, glances over his shoulder to make sure Tony isn’t watching him, and walks past his truck and around the corner of the building. As he approaches the Dumpster, an unusual lump rises in his throat, compounded by a nervous lurch in his stomach. Anticipation. Excitement. Foreign emotions in the land of neverending time. 

Bucky, shirtless and in a white apron, is slouched on Clint’s bench. Instead of a cigarette today, he’s nursing a beer. He raises it in Steve’s direction when he spots him. “Ah, it’s Officer Friendly,” he cheers. “I’m legal, sir, I swear.”

His mocking grin is anything but respectful, but it settles Steve’s emotions down just fine. He grins and sits next to the boy. “Hand it over,” he orders.

Bucky obediently does so, and Steve takes a deep swig. Wiping the back of his mouth, pretending he doesn’t notice the other man’s eyes lingering on his wet lips, he declares, “Now we’re accomplices.”

The nutty taste is sour after his orange juice, but he enjoys it. 

They stare at the ass end of the Dumpster, which is streaked with rust and smeared with bird shit. It’s not the most romantic view. 

“How would you describe your relationship with Tony?” Bucky asks, out of the blue.

Steve laces his fingers between his legs. “Frustrating.”

“He has a nice ass,” Bucky observes. “But his personality sucks.”

“How long have you been working here?” Steve asks.

Bucky shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Circus is coming soon,” Steve says. 

Bucky gives him a smile that Steve hopes he doesn’t give to anyone else. “Let’s go together.”


	6. going for an ensemble cast

He’s ugly, ugly inside and out. His heart is no good and his face is ruined, and the only claim to happiness he has in life is this, when the world is nothing but a spinning blur of colors, and his whole body is tense and frightened, waiting for the next thud of the knife. 

He can’t see the crowd so much, just hear them, and smell the buttery popcorn and sugar-sweet waft of cotton candy, spoiled by the closer stink of horse manure and sawdust. The ringmaster is, as always, boomingly loud, his voice amplified by megaphone as he touts the acts cartwheeling and bumbling by; the acrobats, clowns, trained animals, and all the other sights people love. And then it comes to him:

“And the amazing, the horrifying, the incredible--!” the ringmaster shouts. “We don’t know what he is! We don’t know where he came from! But he is--the incomparable, the brave, the otherworldly--VISION!!”

The Hulk stops spinning the wheel, and he’s abruptly thrown back into the real world as the straps binding his ankles and wrists are undone. He vaults off the wheel and into a somersault, springing to his feet with his arms outstretched.

_Taaa-daaaaaa!_

As always, there are gasps, cheers, and a few outright shrieks. The Vision takes them all in stride, bowing solemnly, never letting emotion break out on his tired, strange face. Yes, he’s quite comical, isn’t he? Maudlin and horrific and fascinating; grotesque and frightening and amazing. He’s an acrobat, a dancer, a sword-swallower and a poet. Some towns, he tells fortunes for a dime, and others, he does nothing but ride the wheel until the thud of knives into wood is all he hears, both awake and asleep. 

His bald, scarred head is painted bright red, but the milky yellow of his eyes is genuine, the real monstrosity in his face. 

He flips across the ring, the spotlight following him for a few minutes as he digs his palms into the sawdust and walks on his hands, legs stiff above him. He bucks his body, throwing himself back to his feet to the soundtrack of cheers, the crowd no longer shocked by him but finding him yet another of the charming amusements; then the lights move on, and he’s free to collapse back into himself, retreating behind an Oriental screen until his performance is demanded. 

In that space, sheltered from the crowds but still surrounded by their racket, he sits carefully and waits. He makes eye contact with the strongman, the Hulk, whose bulging muscles are painted green and adorned with a spray of glitter that makes him look even less human under the flashing, colored lights, and looks away. It would do no good for him to talk to the beast anyway; the man is mute. 

He looks up at the tent, past the high wire where a pretty blond girl balances precariously, past the swinging trapezes and hanging scarves, to the very peak of the Big Top itself, where the dull red and white strips join in a single, fixed point, and through that point he can make out the indigo blue of the night sky. It’s just a dot, but it’s a dot of peace, and his mind seizes gratefully on it, taking him away from the clamor and the press and the claustrophobic atmosphere of the tent. 

And then, on his cue, the incomparable Vision vaults into the center of the room and lets the other members of the circus line up to throw knives at him, and he spins and spins and feels something close to alive, his thoughts still high above, on the dark and calm sky.


	7. a disturbing sight

Tony sends Bucky to take out the trash for the night, and stays behind to make sure the ovens are all shut off. He waves to Steve, who’s pulling away from the diner in his truck, and Steve honks his horn before driving off.

The sun is just past setting, turning the sky light violet, and the slightest nip of a chill bites into Tony as he locks up. Bucky’s motorcycle is leaning against the side of the building. 

“Kid, I’m leaving!” he shouts. “Have a good night!”

No reply, not even Bucky’s typically grumpy, “Fuck off, Tony.” Tony frowns, concerned. It’s not like this is a violent town, but accidents happen. People have a funny habit of finding ways to die here; and not naturally of old age, either. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d say the town was cursed. 

“Bucky!” he calls. “Did you hear me?” 

He peers around the building, but he can’t see much more than the side of the Dumpster. Sighing, he stuffs his keys into his pocket and tromps around the place, intending to ream Bucky out for dillydallying. He wants to get home, for crying out loud.

He rounds the Dumpster, catching sight of Bucky in flashes; his arm as he tosses a garbage bag up, his knee as he squats down to grab another, most of his right shoulder and back as he retreats to the smoking bench. 

Tony doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but he falls back, hiding. Spying on Bucky from around the corner. He watches the boy light up, cigarette end flaring brightly in the twilight, the ensuing stream of white smoke curling up to the sky. Bucky must assume he’s gone for the night, or maybe he’s trying to be an annoying little shit. If that’s the case, he’s succeeding wonderfully. 

Tony should get going. But something, some instinct, keeps him glued to the back of the Dumpster, watching Bucky burn through that cigarette. 

Bucky tilts his head back, mouthing the smoke that streams like dragon’s breath from his lips, and speaks aloud, though clearly to himself. “Steve Rogers,” he says, as if he’s tasting the name with the nicotine. 

He snubs the cigarette out on the bench, chucking it onto the ground and rolling his shoulders. 

And then he’s unzipping his pants, and at first Tony’s too surprised to realize what’s going on but then--but then Bucky whips out his dick and starts--and starts--

And Tony feels the shocked keen rise in his throat, so he clamps his hands over his mouth and watches, beyond his own control, as the man jacks off before his eyes. 

Bucky arches back, pressing against the bench, and the motion thrusts his dick forwards, presenting it more clearly to Tony’s shocked eyes. He runs his hands over his length, his face contorted in agony, and that’s what morbidly fascinates Tony above all else. 

Because as Bucky slimes his fingers with his own pre-cum, works his hand under himself to slide them into his ass like some sick porn video, as he grips his cock like it’s about to spring out of his control, he looks as though he’s being tortured, not pleased at all. The sounds he makes aren’t gasps of pleasure or titillating moans, but pained cries. His brows furrow, his mouth drawn in a thin line, and he thrusts his hips mechanically, tightly, with the attitude of someone just getting it over with.

Tony doesn’t get it. Is he a masochist? Just really, really, uncontrollably horny? Abused in the past? He spends more time thinking of that then processing that he’s watching one of his employees masturbate behind the diner, and he doesn’t notice his own excitement until the press of his dick against his jeans becomes painful. 

When Bucky comes, he lets out a long, low moan that goes straight to Tony’s bones. It isn’t a human sound at all. And as Tony watches, frozen to his core, Bucky slumps back on the bench, leaking cock still hanging out for the world to see, his eyes glazed over silver. 

He turns his head towards Tony, and Tony recoils at once, spurred into action. It isn’t an exaggeration; Bucky’s eyes are the same flat, iridescent disks as the rising moon. 

“Who’s there?” he asks, rough and harsh and nothing like the flippant brat Tony has to put up with on a daily basis.

More than terrified, Tony spins on his heels and runs, wishing his hard-on could disappear as quickly as his sense of security. 

What the fuck?

What the fuck was _that_?


	8. round and round and down and down

Wanda dreams in red, and wakes up, surrounded in red. Her white sheets are stained with it, her hands drenched in the color. Next to her, Pietro is silver-pale; untouched.

He looks at her with their father’s green eyes and none of the lunacy she associates with them, and that’s when she remembers, and wonders how she could have forgotten.

She sits up. There is red everywhere. It’s sticky under her bare feet. It stains her skin, the floor; the windows are streaked with it. Through them, she can just make out the lake, which looks strange through the ruddy tinge. Darker. Thick. Perhaps it’s only her imagination--perhaps all of this is.

“Wanda?” her brother asks, sounding confused. “Was ist los?” _What’s going on?_

He doesn’t know, poor thing. His mind is as blank as his prematurely white hair; he doesn’t remember. He never remembers. 

“Ist nichts,” she tells him. _It’s nothing_. She pulls him towards her and kisses his pale forehead, the last of her lipstick smudging red on his skin, and helps him from the bed, her hands stronger than his despite being smaller. His feet hit the floor--one, two--and she leaves him to stand there, looking around as if he doesn’t know where he is, while she puts on a bra and runs a brush through her hair. 

Pietro dresses himself this morning, batting her hands away when she tries to help, and she leaves her bedroom to make breakfast. The mobile home is small--she and her brother have shared a room for as long as she can remember, while Father took the couch--and she’s comfortable enough leaving him alone for a few minutes. The smell of cooking bacon soon draws him out, anyway.

“I have the day off,” she says. “I thought we could go into town, maybe stop by the library.”

Pietro stands in the middle of the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned because he can’t figure out how, and says vaguely, “Sounds nice.”

She puts down her spatula and goes to him--this time, he doesn’t object when she swiftly does up his buttons. 

“Sit down,” she instructs, pointing at the tiny, laminate table. “I’ll fix you a plate.”

“I had a dream last night,” he said suddenly, picking up a fork and inspecting it. “I was running. Fast.”

Wanda _hmms_ , dishing out bacon and eggs and dropping the plate in front of him. “That’s nice, darling.”

While he eats, she scrubs. The floor gives up its stain easily, but her clothes are going to need hand washing and there’s nothing to be done about the sheets but soak them and hope for the best. She wipes down the windows, hardly paying attention to the muddy lake outside, and just as she’s done wringing out one of her t-shirts, someone raps on the front door.

Pietro shouts--loud--in surprise, “WHO’S THERE?!”, and Wanda rushes back into the main room to find him tensed, facing the door as if it was a monster. 

“Don’t be like that, honey,” she says soothingly, patting his shoulder. “Go watch some TV in my room--it’s almost time for your favorite show.”

He looks between her and the door, clasping her elbows protectively. “It’s dangerous.”

“I can handle it,” she promises, patting him encouragingly on the cheek. “Don’t worry, just go.”

He wavers, and then plods off down the hall. With amusement, she realizes he’s wearing odd socks. 

“I’m coming,” she calls to the person on the other side of the door, and quickly scrapes the rest of Pietro’s breakfast into the garbage, stashing the plate in the sink. She opens the door.

Clint nods at her. His typical grungy white shirt and apron have been replaced by a slightly-less-grungy blue shirt, no apron. Wanda’s surprised; when does Clint ever have the day off?

“Nat won’t let me in,” he says without preamble. “Got anything to eat?”

She glances over her shoulder. The house looks normal, no glaring smears of blood or toys where there shouldn’t be. No sign that anything is amiss. 

“Come in,” she says, and stands aside. 

Clint clomps in, big feet in big boots, and toes them off as an afterthought. “Tony isn’t feeding me,” he complains. 

“I heard,” she says dryly. “Could try cooking at home.”

He shrugs.   
They eat in silence, Wanda keeping an ear cocked for Pietro. She doesn’t hear a thing; maybe he’s gone. Inwardly, she breathes a sigh of relief, then immediately feels guilty. She doesn’t have the right to wish her brother away.

“Saw the lake?” Clint grunts after a while, scraping the last few dots of egg from his plate. 

“Since when?” 

“Yesterday, I guess. Somethin’ funny happened to it overnight.” He starts to wash up without being asked, because he’s kind like that, Clint, even if he’s surpassed “rough around the edges” and gone straight to “rough all around”. “S’all . . . weird. Go look.”

She gives him a doubtful look, wary of his stories. He waves a dishcloth at her. “Go! It’s true, I swear.”

So she goes, stuffing her tired feet into worn sneakers, wrapping a sweatshirt around herself to combat the morning chill, and when she steps out into the soggy, dewy grass and rounds the trailer, she can see that, yes, the lake looks strange. 

It’s thick, and dark. The surface is pebbled like a bowl of lumpy oatmeal.

A rapping on a window behind her gets her attention, and she turns around. Pietro, pleased with himself, waves delightedly at her, his forehead still smeared in red. 

Wanda slowly waves back.


	9. they say, 'come one, come all'

The circus is wonderful.

Tony goes because everyone else goes, because there’s nothing much better to do, because when the sun goes down and the fairy lights come up, and the strains of organ music and badly tuned violins reach the diner, he can’t resist the pull to join the town in streaming down the dirt road out of town, tramping a path through the field towards the big, brightly-lit tents.

Circuses are like parades; everybody loves them. Tony nods at Steve, on-duty and monitoring the area like the good watchdog he is. 

Clint and Wanda came together, because somehow--and very strangely, in Tony’s opinion--they’re friends outside of work, the weird girl and the moody man. He scans the crowd for Natasha, and finds her in a tank top and jeans, accepting a stick of candyfloss from a stilted clown. Bucky’s with her. 

Tony’s chest feels funny, his face burns hot, and he quickly hands his ticket over and enters the Big Top, eager to find a seat and get his bus boy out of sight and out of mind. 

There’s something off about Bucky, but Tony’s too scared to figure out what. 

There’s the smell of animals and popcorn, the occasional sweet drift of a caramel apple or frosted corn, musty hay and the overbearing perfume of the woman in front of him. In addition to the clowns tumbling about and entertaining the waiting audience, there’s a woman in blue tights selling glow sticks and wacky hats, and a man in pink tights selling beer and flirty looks; the smartly dressed ringleader runs his golden retriever through a routine of tricks, rewarding him with a biscuit whenever he does well. A barrage of colors assaults Tony’s eyes--greens and blues, reds and oranges, silver, gold, all of them flashy and bold and screaming for attention. In comparison, the townspeople seem dull and uninspired.

And the noise. Talking, laughing, crying, singing, arguing, shrieking, cooing, booing, cawing, whistling, chanting, bantering, giggling, chattering, jeering, mocking, praising--it rings in his ears at deafening levels. 

He connects eyes with Bucky across the wide, empty ring. His blood chills; he quickly looks away.

Something is not right with Bucky, but Tony’s too cowardly to figure out what.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” the ringmaster suddenly booms, his voice louder than the rest of the tent combined thanks to the megaphone in his hand. “IT IS WITH GREAT PLEASURE THAT I GIVE TO YOU--THE ULTIMATE CIRRRRRRCUUUUUUUUSSSSSSS!”

He thanks them for coming, makes jokes, demonstrates how smart his dog is. The clowns attempt to prank him and end up punking themselves; then, grinning under his pencil-drawn mustache and strangely shady eyepatch, he spins on his heel and begins to announce the acts. 

There’s a tall man on stilts who does cartwheels and backflips, and a blond girl who defies gravity with her aerial stunts. Jugglers, singers, sixteen clowns crowding into a single car; a hooded man who twists his slim body into impossible contortions. 

A hush falls over the entire crowd when a bald man strides out, a glittering gold cape fluttering behind him like a flag: THE VISION: and he picks audience members out by pointing his long, slim fingers, and bends his scarred and mutilated head to tell them their fortune. He knows things no other living soul should--the ringmaster says he’s been to hell and back. Looking at the fortune-teller’s face, Tony believes it.

There’s a strongman--a Hulk--with painted limbs and bulging muscles; he lifts a car, two cars, an elephant. An audible gasp ripples through the room. The man’s lined face remains unchanged through the spectacle. 

The contortionist comes back and tells a few jokes through the spread of his legs, delighting most of the children and horrifying their parents. A magician touted as Strange rebels against reality by turning his assistants invisible, setting them on fire, and stretching them (seemingly) from one end of the ring to the other, like putty. 

None of these things hold the same shock for Tony, after seeing Bucky behind the diner. Somehow, that one sight alone was more unsettling than any of this fanfare. Because circuses are accepted, well-known, and their secrets can be unearthed with a simple Google search. Tony’s brain tells him the facts: that invisibility is nothing but a mirror-illusion, that the contortionist was simply born double-jointed, that THE VISION was briefed ahead of time as to which planted “audience members” to choose.

But Bucky?

Tony can’t explain away Bucky. And when he sees Steve slip in halfway through the show to join Bucky and Natasha in the bleachers, his heart constricts. He doesn’t have to have been to hell and back to see the future on this one; to predict that it will be, unquestionably, bad.


	10. you don't have it yet

Steve walks Bucky home, or back to what consists of home--that one crappy motel in town that no one actually stayed at, before now. 

“Wasn’t exactly what I expected,” Bucky says on the way, kicking at stones, hands in his pockets. 

“Whaddya mean? Not enough excitement?” Steve asks.

Bucky shoots him that sideways look, that dangerous sideways look where his eyes go all dark and Steve’s stomach drops to his dick and he can’t think about much else. “Not enough you. You were working almost the entire night.”

Doesn’t help when he says things like that. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Steve offers. “Tomorrow is Nat’s turn--redo?”

Bucky scoffs. “You gonna take me to see the same show twice?”

“Not much else to see around here.”

“I can think of a few things.”

Steve spins around, walking backwards to face the boy. “Name one,” he challenges.

Bucky grins. “The inside of my hotel room.”

“That’s a show I’d pay to see,” Steve retorts, his face going red despite his effort to be witty and cool and not at all flustered. He whips back around, to find that they’ve arrived at the motel, which is somewhat busier than Steve remembers.

“Circus performers,” Bucky says, seeing him watch the individuals come in and out of the dilapidated building. “Good place for a quick hook-up before going back to the wife.”

Steve sees it now--men and women he knows from around town, whose names he could conjure up if pressed to recall; the grocer, the postmistress, the man who always orders cherry pie at the diner--and steps back, his heart stuttering a little in surprise. This is a happy, quiet town. Some of these folks are married, like Bucky said. 

“Amazing what you miss when you aren’t looking,” Bucky remarks. He’s looking at Steve like he’s trying to measure up his reaction--like he’s expecting Steve to fail some kind of test. 

Steve shakes his head, confused. He doesn't know how he's supposed to react, what Bucky wants from him. 

It’s none of his business what these people do, he guesses. But it’ll be a damn sight harder running down to the store for a bag of sugar with the image of the grocer arm-in-arm with a man in high heels and orange lipstick in his head.

It's not right. It shouldn't be like this. He frowns.

Bucky tugs on his arm. “Hey,” he says softly. “Never mind. You aren’t ready--forget about it.”

“Forget--?”

Bucky puts his hand around Steve’s neck. His fingers are cold, which is strange in this weather. His eyes look pitch black in the darkness; the expression on his face is indescribable. Steve’s pulse throbs and his stomach twists. His skin is flushed, hot. He waits for Bucky to kiss him. 

He comes close. So close, Steve breathes in what Bucky breathes out; there’s a second where the entire world shrinks down to everything that can be contained in Bucky’s unshaven face, and then. 

_Kiss me, kiss me; c'mon, just kiss me. C'mon._  
And then. Steve feels the heat, a burning sensation on his sensitive lips, the closeness of Bucky's skin.

_Just kiss me, it's alright, do it alright._

And then.

Bucky draws away, leaving him confused and tingling and shaking. “Good night,” he says, and leaves Steve standing outside, alone, wondering what he’d been thinking a second before. 

As he walks away, his eyes glide carelessly over the faces of the complete and total strangers hanging around the motel--the postmistress he doesn’t remember, the grocer who he’ll swear he saw going home with his wife the next morning, the world of things he isn’t ready to see. 

He isn't thinking about any of them. He's just thinking about Bucky.


	11. small miracles, small beautiful little miracles

Tony opens the diner by himself, the slight sliver of dawn over the horizon not enough to jolt his brain into wakefulness. He burns a pot of coffee and drinks it anyway, the caffeine edging him slightly closer to intelligence. 

It’s Rogers’ day off, which means he’ll be in at eight instead of seven, and Tony has three whole hours before he has to think about what to say to Steve about Bucky. Clint’s gone AWOL. Wanda isn’t in ‘til nine; Bucky ‘til ten. 

The morning after Opening Night, nobody comes to the diner at the crack of dawn, not even the old ones who have trouble sleeping. Town’s dead silent. School’s starting an hour later. It’s like a holiday they unanimously and silently decided to observe.

He wonders if there’s a point to firing up the ovens, or should he just wait until he has an actual customer. Even the deep fryer looks like it doesn’t want to be there. 

He sits down at the counter and starts going over his accounts for the third time this week. They still don’t add up the way he wishes they would. 

Half-past five, the bell over the door jangles, heralding the approach of--can it be?--a customer. Tony’s head snaps up at once, wondering who it is: Nat for her coffee (she gave up the caffeine purge, it was a bad idea from the start) or Mr. Parker for his pie. It’s neither.

The man who enters is two and a half heads taller than Tony, narrowly missing having to duck to get through the doorway. There are still traces of dull green paint on his skin where he couldn’t fully scrub it off, and glitter freckles his cheekbones and hair. His eyes--Tony notices people’s eyes right away now, he’s gotten wary of them--are brown.

He chooses the counter seat directly across from Tony.

“Morning,” Tony grunts. 

The man nods. 

“Get you anything?”

The man taps the countertop in front of him, then mimes opening a menu. 

“You’re welcome,” Tony mutters sulkily, as he slides a laminated menu across to the man. Performers, he thinks, irritated. Either this man thinks he’s too good to talk, or he’s engaging in some superstitious nonsense about saving his voice, and neither option appeals to Tony. 

So much for small talk. 

He isn’t sure why he cares, really, except that he never tries to be polite to people and when he does--in his own way--this is what happens. Would a "thanks" be so out of order?

The man taps the counter again, getting his attention, and Tony scowls. “What, Your Majesty?”

The man frowns, and taps his lips. 

“Saving your singing voice?”

Head shake. Another tap. A flurry of hand motions Tony can’t begin to understand.

“You’re deaf?” he guesses.

The man seesaws his hand from side to side; sort of. He points at his throat, makes obviously fake speaking motions with his mouth, and then vehemently shakes his head. Tony feels like an asshole.

“You can’t speak.”

The man smiles, pointing at him as if he’s just won a million bucks, and does jazz hands. A six-and-then-quite-a-lot-of-inches man who weighs, Tony’d guess, up in the three hundred pound range, doing jazz hands. 

He can’t help it. He laughs. “You ever do that for the audience?”

The man shakes his head, an exaggerated expression of horror on his face. The message is pretty clear-- _HELL TO THE NO_. 

He doesn't seem like such a bad guy. 

Tony's sorry for being annoyed.

“So, what can I get you, Mister Mute?” he asks. “This morning we’re offering a sumptuous selection of possibly rotted fruit, a bevy of eggs, bacon, and ham--burned or undercooked, to your taste--and a side of moldy toast with the black bits scraped off.”

Making a doubtful face, the man points to _Coffee_. 

“That’s burnt, too,” Tony assures him. “Sorry--my usual chef disappeared on me. Nothing’s quite up to its usual sub-par standards.”

The man cups his chin in one hand, raising his eyebrows. _Oh, really?_ he seems to be saying. _That’s your excuse?_

Tony chuckles. “Why yes, that is my story. And I’m sticking to it. If you think you can hold out that long, my waitress comes in at ten--she should be able to make something palatable.”

The man cocks his head, and waves his hand dismissively. _No, no, it’s fine_. He scans the menu again, and points to _Oatmeal_. He cocks an eyebrow at Tony.

“I’ll try,” he sighs. 

It turns out that microwave oatmeal is something that even he can’t screw up, more or less. He regards the pasty, lumpy mess with some doubts, but his mute customer can’t shovel it into his mouth fast enough. 

“Seconds?” Tony offers.

Emphatic nod. He has seconds, thirds, and--to Tony’s increasing disbelief--fourths.

“Don’t they feed you over at the circus?” he asks, leaning on the counter, his accounts book forgotten next to him. 

The man shrugs. _Not really_. He pats his stomach. _Big appetite._

“Big guy,” Tony mutters, and then ducks his head, inexplicably embarrassed despite there being nothing to be embarrassed about. The man touches his forearm, getting his attention, and brings four fingers to his chin--the universal gesture of thank you that not even Tony can mistake. 

“Welcome,” Tony mumbles. The man reaches into the pockets of his pants--bright purple, gaudy, yet somehow suiting him--and takes out a wallet, an ordinary thing to be in such large, strange hands. Tony waves the money away. “On the house.”

The man frowns, and gestures to the account book. _This is why you’re in trouble_.

“Who says I’m in trouble?” Tony asks sharply, and the man takes the book, flipping through it. Then he looks up, eyebrows raised.

Trouble. He shakes a rebuking finger. _This is not the way to run a business_.

“I’ll run my diner however I want!” Tony snaps.

The man looks shocked. A strange look crosses his face; not a normal, run-of-the-mill emotion, but a jumble of them. Confusion, surprise, a little delight. And somehow, though Tony hadn’t realized he was doing this before, Tony understands perfectly the question he’s being asked.

_You know exactly what I’m saying, don’t you?_

“I--” Tony falters. “You just . . . you just asked me if I understand you, right?”

_Yes._

“Then . . . yes.”


	12. in the absence of death

The diner’s so quiet, Tony tells Wanda to go home early. He’s preoccupied with a giant who’s been going through his account book, pointing out all of his errors, and there have been only a few other customers all day. At quarter of three, she hangs up her apron, promises to drag Clint back in if she sees him, and leaves. 

The thought of going home--back to the now-empty mobile home to have an early supper, then mindlessly watch TV until night falls and the horror begins all over again--makes her physically sick. She isn't ready for that, not yet. She needs a distraction.

And there, waiting for her at the edge of town, is the most all-consuming distraction around; the circus.

She buys a ticket and wanders through the tents, listening to a fantastical story from a snake charmer about the indigenous people of North Africa, indulging the sword-swallower--the contortionist who performed last night--by clapping and laughing at his absurd jokes while he sticks a blade down his throat, getting her face painted by the acrylic-nailed man with orange lipstick and overplucked eyebrows. 

And then she comes across a small, black tent, set aside from the rest. There are no bright signs around the entrance, and the well-trod path through the grass doesn't detour its way, but she approaches it anyway, curious. The flap is drawn back slightly, held by a gold cord; bravely, she slips inside. 

She expected it to be dark, but there are bright strands of Christmas lights strung between the tent poles, illuminating the small, bare space. The Vision sits at a table in the center of the tent, hands folded around a glass gazing ball.

He looks at her when she comes in, motionless but for his eyes, a creamy off-white with strange, discolored retinas. Without his body paint, and even with the colorfully embroidered robes, he looks like a normal man; sort of. His bare skin is mottled with scars.

“What happened to you?” she asks, before hello, before thinking that it might not be a welcome question, before second-guessing whether she should be here at all. She folds her arms around herself, waiting for the inevitable rebuke.

He blinks, and when he speaks, his voice is soft. “People ask me many things,” he says. “About the future, about the weather--about whether or not they'll fall in love. But they never ask _that_.”

“Why not?”

He purses his lips. His words are measured, and slow. He is calm, and Wanda feels all at once that her life is total chaos in comparison. Chaos and noise and red. 

“I believe they’re afraid of the answer,” he says, and almost smiles, fingers twitching around the crystal ball. “One of the largest drawbacks of man is that he sees darkness, and chooses to look away.”

She doesn’t know what to say in reply. She was expecting something different, something other than a philosopher. 

“Perhaps because he is afraid of learning how the darkness becomes him,” the Vision goes on, still in that honey-sweet tone. “But not you, I suppose, Wanda Maximoff. You’re all too aware of what suits you.”

She flinches when he speaks her name. She should wonder, _how does he know_ , but she doesn’t. Nothing surprises her. Even if this man pulled a rabbit out of his hat--or, his ear, since he doesn’t have a hat--she wouldn’t be surprised. 

“I saw you in the crowd last night,” he says. He lays his palms flat on the table, on either side of the ball, which looks cheap and out-of-place in this simple tent. The robes, too, are a laughable costume; nothing but a poor representation of what he’s supposed to be. “Did you enjoy my act?”

“Weren’t you afraid? When they threw knives at you?”

He runs his fingers over his own scarred skin. “What do you think?”

“You must be brave. Or not very smart.” She’s still lingering by the tent flap. Sitting down would seem like a concession--of what, she doesn’t know. But her guard is up and she’s more comfortable on her feet. 

He laughs. “I am not smart,” he admits. “Nor good for much. But you--you are very beautiful.”

She blushes. She’s in old sneakers, her unwashed hair in a bun. She just put in four hours at the diner, cooking to cover Clint, and her face is painted like a leopard. She doubts she’s anything close to beautiful. 

“I embarrassed you.” He sounds ambivalent to the fact. “You aren’t complimented much.”

She knots her fingers together, feeling even more uncomfortable. “It’s not something I seek out.”

He scoffs. “Who said anything about that?” He pauses. “Would you accept a cup of tea?”

The way he phrases it is strange. She should probably refuse--who knows if he can be trusted--but the thought of Father, of Pietro, drives her to finally sit down. “I would. Um, I will.”

There’s a small hot-water heater by his futon. He boils a pot while she watches, and takes out two tea bags from his pocket. He hands one to her, and she fingers the tag. Earl Gray. It smells reassuringly like the label. 

He pours her a cup of hot water in silence, and she submerges the bag. She had been expecting something more elegant, like tea leaves that he would then use to divine her future, but this is nice, too. 

“You should come visit me again,” he says, after she’s taken her first sip. “You should come visit me often.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” He lifts his cup to his lips. “If you come to me seven times, I will tell you my story.”

She suppresses a smile. “And if I’m not that interested in what you have to say?”

“Then you should have never asked.”

His proposal sounds like a fairy story, the kind of soothing tale Pietro used to tell her before bed. It also sounds interesting. Like a distraction.

“Fine,” she concedes. “I’ll do it.”

He smiles. “Just like that? How do you know I don’t have some other motive up my sleeve?”

“I doubt you can fit anything up your sleeves,” she says, eyeing the tight elastic around his wrists. “And . . . well, I don’t know. But I don’t really care, either.”

“Ah.” He sets his cup down. “Then you are more like me than I thought.”

“Really?”

“I should think so. But perhaps it’s nothing but my delusion,” he sighs. “Simply a vain hope. Meanwhile, we should think of other things to talk about. Our stories are, understandably, off-limits--how do you feel about the weather?”

“Fairly neutral,” she admits. “Have you seen the lake?”

“I’m to understand it’s very large.”

“It’s turned strange,” she says. “It didn’t used to be like that.”

He runs his fingers over his mottled skin. “Neither did I. I think you’ll find that change is the nature of life--the absence of change, therefore, is death.”

As he looks at her, with those strange eyes and that marred complexion, she gets the uncanny sense that he knows about Pietro, about everything; that he can see straight into her memories and is plucking them out, one by one, for his own amusement. What else could amuse such an alien creature?

She has a sudden chill. “I should go. I have--there’s someone waiting for me.”

He nods, unmoved by her abrupt retreat. 

She gets to her feet, almost upsetting her tea cup, and practically races out of the tent, astonished to find that the sun is low and fat in the sky. Her watch tells her it’s just past five. The fairy lights have gone on around the circus, the first strands of the band beginning to play, to drum up business for the six o’clock show. 

Wanda hurries away from THE VISION’s tent, feeling not quite herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hope y'all had a good Easter, if you celebrate that kind of thing. if not, hope you had a good last-Sunday haha. Thanks for reading!_


	13. a breath of fresh air from the outside world

In Steve’s dreams, Bucky fucks him, but reality is much less kind. 

“Your problem,” Nat tells him--she’s always more than ready to tell him when he has a problem--“Is that you’re obsessed with it. You have to want less sex.”

“Is there a person alive who wants less sex?”

“Priests. Nuns. Tony, if his track record is anything to go by.” She shrugs, tapping away on the station’s sole computer as if she’s actually working, when Steve knows she’s really just updating her blog. “The point is, the universe always moves in the opposite direction you tell it to, so start thinking celibate thoughts and you’ll have Bucky bent over a barrel in no time.”

“I don’t want him bent over a barrel,” he mumbles, adding a few rubber bands to the ball he’s been working on. “I want to be bent over a barrel. Or a bed. Or desk. Whatever.”

Nat tuts, spinning away from her desk for a second to pour herself another cup of coffee--when she falls off the wagon, she falls hard. “Rogers, I never took you for a pervert. Tell me more.”

“Pass.” He chucks the ball back into the top drawer of his desk and looks over the stack of reports he’s supposed to file. No one warned him that eighty-five percent of this gig was going to be paperwork. He’s spectacular at putting it off, and not so spectacular at coming back around to doing it, so what should be a daily, five-minute job usually turns out to be a monthly, all-night horror. 

Maybe he’ll go down to the diner and work on them. Or allow himself to be distracted by Tony and not work on them. Maybe Bucky will be there. 

Natasha snaps a rubber band at him. “Steve-o. Focus.”

He pulls a face. “Can’t you finish these for me?” He waves the folder. She crosses her arms.

“Uh-uh. I did my gruntwork already. You’re gonna have to sort through that on your own.”

“Naaaaaaaat.”

“Nope.” She turns back to the computer and starts typing again, ignoring his attempts to engage her. After a minute, he gives up and knuckles down, squashing the childish voice still whining _aw, man, do I hafta?????_ in the back of his head. 

It takes him the better part of an hour, which wasn’t as bad as he was expecting, and when he finally stretches out, groaning in relief, he notices that Nat left already. Early weekend for her, he guesses. He dumps the folder into one of his filing cabinets and grabs his jacket from its peg, slinging it over his shoulder as he locks up the office. He’s not sure what the point of the rest of the police station is, since there’s no receptionist, no other officers, and not even a town drunk to lock up in the cells. On the upside, he and Nat can loudly play whatever crappy music they want, and the Christmas parties are epic. 

He locks the station door and heads to his patrol car--stopped abruptly by the feel of something cold and hard pressing into the back of his head.

“Gimme all your money,” a low voice says.

Steve realizes he left his gun in the office; when has he ever needed it? Before he can mentally run through the judo moves he remembers (like, three), someone bursts out laughing and a man comes ‘round to face him, twirling a toy pistol. 

“Man, Rogers,” he says, shaking his head. “You've gone soft.”

Steve recognizes him at once. “Sam! You jackass!” 

He socks his former partner in the arm, annoyed and ecstatic all at once to see him. “I didn’t know you were coming by,” he says.

Sam hugs him, one-armed and quick. Manly, not like that back-patting stuff that Tony does when he gets enough alcohol in him. Manly, like they do in the heartless big city.

Steve’s still pretty big city at heart. 

“Yeah, well, I was headed West, figured I’d swing in,” Sam says, grinning. “See what nowhere podunk town you landed yourself in.”

Steve spreads his arms out. “Here it is,” he declares. “This is it--the central hub. Main St., USA.”

Sam whistles. “Almost missed the place, it’s so tiny.”

Steve snorts. “You can’t miss it. It’s the end of the line. Ain’t nowhere to go past here.”

Sam gives him a curious look, but Steve’s already opening the door of his car. “Well, get in,” he says. “I’ll take you to Tony’s.”

“Tony’s?” Sam asks, getting into the passenger seat. “You finally get yourself a boyfriend?”

“Pfft,” Steve says, shaking his head. “Though not for lack of trying. Naw, Tony’s is a diner. Best place to eat in town.” He pauses. “Only place to eat in town.”

Sam sighs, propping his boots on the dashboard. “Middle of nowhere,” he says, but in a fond sort of way.

Steve thinks, _Sam’s gonna like it here._


	14. it will hurt but i promise you'll like it

Steve brings in a stranger, and Tony feels the shift as acutely as if the earth itself cracked.

Sam Wilson’s black; that shouldn’t set him apart but it does. You get more black people from the big city, not little towns like this one, and that’s just fact. That’s just how it is. 

But he walks the same as Steve, talks in that slow, confident way--takes his coffee with extra cream like Steve and holds his hand just shy of his left beltloop like Steve, and the look in his eyes is hard, real hard, like Steve’s used to be when he first came here, before Natasha thawed him out like a polar ice cap and Tony won him over with bad jokes and free refills. 

Big city boy. Doesn’t belong here, and that’s got nothing to do with his skin or the way he acts or walks or takes his coffee; it’s just fact. Just how it is.

Tony doesn’t like him. He’s afraid of Bucky and annoyed at Clint and fondly baffled by Steve and Nat, but he plain doesn’t like this Wilson guy from the second he steps foot in the diner. 

Wanda picks up on it at once, sidling over to his usual place behind the counter, one black-nailed hand on his shoulder and her scarlet red mouth saying in an undertone, “Everything all right, boss?”

He sighs, wishing she wasn't so perceptive, wishing he could keep Steve all to himself because if Tony's not a boyfriend (that's Bucky) and not a best friend (that's Sam, now), then where does he belong? “I just don’t like change.”

She frowns, cradling the bottom of the coffee pot with her free hand, leaning her hip against the counter. “Things that don’t change are dead,” she says, like someone just downloaded the wisdom of the Buddha into her head.

He stares at her, startled. “Since when are you a poet?” Wanda's known for sarcastic remarks and boy band obsessions, not this uncharacteristic Zen behavior.

She just shrugs, pushing off from the counter like she's getting ready to go. “So, am I putting arsenic in Sam Wilson’s coffee, or what?”

Tony, though tempted, shakes his head. “No. Too much trouble to bury the body. Just screw up his order a bit.”

“What body?” Bucky asks, brushing by. He's balancing a plastic tub of dishes on his hip, but he's still got a hand to tug Wanda's ponytail as he passes. If he notices the way Tony goes rigid, skin curdling with goosebumps, he doesn’t say.

“Wilson’s,” Wanda tells him, popping a stick of gum into her mouth. “But Tony chickened out.”

Bucky boos on principle, then says, “It’s for the best, anyway. He’s kinda hot.” He catches Sam’s eye, and winks. 

Tony becomes focused on his ledger, and not imagining Bucky jerking off behind the Dumpsters. Contrary to ordinary bad memories, the incident is getting more and more vivid in his mind with every passing day. It’s as if the more he resists it, the stronger it becomes.

Steve has his arm casually slung over the back of Sam’s seat; the place where Tony used to sit. Things are changing, really changing, Tony thinks. It all started when Bucky came, and it’s been snowballing ever since. 

Something has Wanda smiling at the customers, and Clint--who used to be as permanent a fixture as the oven itself--is on his third day of absence. Tony’s not balancing between red and black anymore; he’s fallen straight down, no hope of rescue, true-blue-surrounded-by-scarletsville. 

He’s so scared. Nothing’s ever changed before. He doesn’t know how to handle it.

Maybe that’s what drives him to hand control of the diner over to Wanda, who’s more than capable, and head down to the circus grounds. He goes to buy a ticket, and the seller--a black-haired woman he never really paid attention to before--laughs and shoos him in without taking his money, saying, “You get a free pass this time, honey.”

He turns to ask her why, and she’s already gone. 

The little village of tents is quiet enough that a few turns easily take him out of earshot of anyone else, giving him the illusion of being totally alone. He wanders around, not sure of where he’s going or what he’s looking for, until he stumbles across a tent towards the back of the field, where he can make out Steve’s red perimeter tape standing proudly between the property of the town and the Great Unknown.

The large flap of the purple-and-green tent is lifted, revealing the interior at a glance. A long, low couch is down the far side, serving no purpose except to hold a variety of wild outfits, and standing in front of a gold, claw-foot mirror, is the strongman, swirling a paintbrush in a pot.

He smiles when he sees Tony, not at all thrown by his sudden appearance, and holds the pot out. 

Tony goes in and takes the brush from him, swirling it over the man’s skin. “I never caught your name,” he says, and the strongman spells it out on his own arm with a finger.

_B-R-U-C-E._

“That’s a dumb name.”

Bruce gives him a look. _So’s Tony._

“Touche,” Tony chuckles. He runs the brush over Bruce’s arm, smearing the name until it’s nothing but an even green stain. “You do this every night?”

_Yeah._

“What a pain in the ass.”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. _It’s a living._

“You ever need a job as a chef, let me know,” Tony says, moving to Bruce’s shoulder. “Mine has apparently decided to run away and join the . . . uh, never mind.”

The strongman laughs aloud, a sound not unlike a seal being tortured. There's a flash of a scarred tongue, a hint of discolored throat--then his wide lips are sealed again with a smile.

Tony takes in the laugh, decides he loves it. “Anyway, the position’s all yours if you want it.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, cocking his head. _And what if I can’t cook?_

“Can’t do worse than Clint.” Tony strokes the brush over Bruce’s back, smearing the light green paint indiscriminately. A good bit of it gets on his hands, too, but he doesn’t mind. He unconsciously draws close to the other man as he works the stain, soaking in the heat radiating from his skin.

The strongman’s body is incredible. Tony’s never felt one way or another about a body before; he could, objectively, say that Nat’s curves are obscenely sexual, and so’s Steve’s ass, and he’s prohibited by law to say a thing about Wanda (but damn); but none of that would really mean anything to him. It’s never had substance behind it--he’s never had that zing shoot through his abdomen and turn his knees to cracked and unsteady pillars, the tremor of excitement that feels like he missed a stair in the dark. 

But Bruce is different, God, is he different. Tony’s head comes up to his shoulderblades. His neck is thick, his short hair a soft brown. That’s not what Tony really notices, though.

He notices the breadth of the strongman’s shoulders, the ball curve of his muscles and the smoothness of the skin stretched over them; his bones are all angles, jutting out behind his shoulders and making the bend of his elbows more pronounced. 

Despite that, he’s soft. When the back of Tony’s hand accidentally brushes against his lower back, it’s like brushing velvet. Tony touches him again, just to be sure, and Bruce makes a rumbling noise deep in his throat. _Stop._

For a mute, he’s surprisingly verbal. 

“Ticklish?” Tony asks teasingly, hoping the words cover his embarrassment. His heart rate has increased, sending more blood to places he’d rather they don’t go. 

He’s insanely attracted to this man. 

_Oh my God,_ he thinks. _I have a muscle fetish. Steve will never let me live this down. If Steve ever gets his head out of Sam Wilson’s ass long enough to notice._

Bruce is glancing over his shoulder, giving Tony a bemused look. _What are you doing, stupid?_

Tony blinks, certain his brain added that last part--but, no. The “stupid” is still clearly spelled out on the strongman’s face, like the last word left on a message board. And it’s truly freaky how specific Bruce’s expressions can be. 

“I’m--uh--almost done,” he stammers out, starting to apply paint to Bruce’s broad back, this time much more haphazardly than before. “Sorry, I’ve gone a little . . .”

Bruce turns, taking the paint pot from Tony’s hand. He’s weirdly delicate about it, for someone of his size. 

Gentle giant cliche, Tony guesses. 

Bruce leans down, right into Tony’s personal space. 

“Uh--” Tony stalls. 

Bruce gestures with the brush. _My face._

“Oh, right.” Tony snaps himself in the forehead and rolls his eyes like, how could I be so stupid, I mean, I only thought you’d kiss me which is ridiculous--and reaches for the brush.

Bruce flicks it across the room and shakes his head, lip twitching. _Too rough. Use your fingers._

He’s kidding, right?

“You’re kidding, right?”

The strong man wiggles his own fingers. _Uh-uh._

“Do it yourself!”

_No._

There should be a law against that smile. It’s worse than Steve’s I’m-charming-and-you-know-you-love-me puppy-dog look. It’s definitely demonic in origin. 

Tony dips his fingers into the pot anyway. Green paint streams from his fingers as he pulls them out, and he awkwardly scrapes the excess off on the side of the container. He runs a cautious trail under one of Bruce’s eyes, like warpaint. 

_Don’t miss a spot._

“I won’t,” Tony snaps. 

Bruce blinks. Like he did back in the diner, he looks taken aback for a second. Tony would wonder why, if the question weren’t completely obvious in the other man’s expression--he’s asking, again, how Tony can understand him so well.

“It’s a mystery to me, too, bud,” Tony mutters. He runs his thumb over Bruce’s other cheekbone. “But seriously--just admit that I’m horrible at this.”

Bruce shakes his head, smile returning. 

“I’m terrible,” Tony presses. “You’re going to look like crap.”

_You’re perfect._

Tony blushes, but it’s nice. Embarrassing, but nice. He’s seized by the sudden urge to tell the strongman everything, to confess every thought in his head to Bruce--it only seems fair, since he can see everything in Bruce’s. 

He guesses he must be more lonely than he thought, if all it takes to melt him is a few nice--not even words, really, just expressions. Just a quirk of an eyebrow and a softening at the corner of Bruce’s mouth and a twitch of his finger, still resting on the pot. 

_Did I make you uncomfortable? Sorry._

“You’re fine,” Tony mutters. “I just--I couldn’t begin to explain it if I tried.”

_Try anyway._

“I want to kiss you right now. So badly. You have no idea. Let’s start with that. Probably shouldn’t, but let’s start with that. And the rest--”

_Who cares about the rest?_

Bruce’s skin is warm like fresh bathwater, the half-dried paint smearing grainily from it to Tony’s; both of his arms clamp around Tony like the safety restraints of a roller coaster and when he kisses Tony--it’s only been two days--they’ve only talked about banal things--Tony can’t claim to know this man but--he does. He knows everything. 

He sees a child separated from his parents, wandering through a fairground until the dark-haired ticket seller picks him up and brings him back to safety; he sees a boy grow tall and strong and brave and handsome in a crisp green uniform; he sees Bruce go to War. 

Tony pulls back, shocked, hardly remembering the kiss for the images that followed it. It must be splashed all over his face, what he knows, because Bruce lets go of him at once, scowling for the first time.

_What are you?_ he demands, and though Tony’s never heard the other man’s voice he can imagine it now; harsh and quivering, barely controlled anger covering barely hid insecurity. 

And then the music begins, and the clang of the gong to summon all performers to the Big Top, and Bruce tears his eyes away from Tony, and closes his face. No more words pass between them.


	15. unfunny business

Clint stares out at the lake. 

It’s wrong, it’s just wrong, and he seems to be the only one who cares.

But that’s okay, because he’s watching it for them. He’s keeping an eye on the situation. He won’t let anything awful happen, not again. He’s just gonna keep watching this lake like a hawk, in case it tries any more funny business. He’ll put a stop to any funny business, that’s well and good and the honest truth. No more funny business.

He drains another beer, chucks it in the murky water. Dares it to try something.

“Not on my watch,” he mutters.


	16. we're all lovers, in one way or another

The Vision strokes the inside of her wrist with his delicate fingers, head bent towards her hand as if listening for the rush of her pulse. 

He sits like that for a long time, long enough for Wanda’s tea to get cold and wrist get stiff and back get sore, and then he leans back, dropping their linked hands to the table.

“You don’t have one,” he concludes.

“What?” She frowns at him. “You said you were reading my future.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And you don’t have one.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Intelligence is irrelevant to the fact.”

“Vision!” Her hand is still in his; she angrily yanks it out and crosses it over her body. “If you’re playing a prank, it isn’t funny!”

He regards her calmly. “Do I ever joke?”

Well, that’s the frightening thing. He doesn’t. She tightens her arms, hugging herself for that miniscule ounce of protection it gives. She knows he’s just a performer, that there’s nothing truly mystic about him, but it’s hard to believe that when he’s so matter-of-fact, and when he looks the part so convincingly; red swirls decorating his skull, green dots down his bare arms like the pelt of an unearthly animal, the gold robes, the quietly confident expression. She knows it’s an act, but--

But there’s a small part of her that knows it isn’t all an act. It can’t be. 

“I’m going to die?” she asks quietly. 

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. “That is one interpretation.” 

“And the others?”

Another shrug. “More tea?”

“Don’t change the subject!” she scolds. “You just said--”

He gets up swiftly, and rounds the table to kneel in front of her chair, prising her clamped arms from her body and taking both of her hands in his. “People’s fortunes change like the wind,” he says, frowning like he only noticed now that he was upsetting her. “There is no meaning to them--today, you may have no future, and tomorrow; who knows? What is true one day is false the next, that is the nature of life.”

“Then why bother with fortune telling?”

He smiles thinly, leaning against her knees like a child, his elbows in her lap. “It makes money, of course. It’s all . . . it’s just an illusion, that’s all. I sell the illusion that you can know your future. There’s no truth to it.”

“So, you make it up?” she asks, and he laughs.

“No, the fortune is true. Everything else is the lie.”

Wanda is so over this conversation. 

The Vision looks at her for a second, then brings her hands to his mouth, kissing them. He keeps them there for a second, his eyelashes brushing the backs of her hands, and then straightens, releasing her. 

“I regret to turn you out, but it’s time for the show,” he says. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

It’s been four days already, but he asks the same question every time. And Wanda, though doubtfully this time, gives the same answer.

“You’re the psychic. You tell me.”


	17. i'd hold you, but you'd think it meant something it didn't

Clint’s down at the lake again. 

Nat watches him through the screen of her back door, mug of coffee in hand, biting back the urge to call his name. _Does he ever go home_ , she wonders. _Does he ever sleep?_

He’s looking rough, lately; more rough than ever. Unshaven, clothes unwashed, barefoot more often than not, eyes never focused on one spot. 

“That lake’s put a spell on him,” she reckons. 

Sam Wilson, the pretty boy who knows Steve from before, from the big city and the shining buildings and the fast women Steve still talks about, frowns. “Excuse me?”

She turns away from the door, almost surprised to find him sitting on her couch, though she was the one who invited him over. “The lake. Have you seen it?”

“Hard to miss it. It’s pretty big.”

His expression is guileless. Should cops be guileless? Nat sure isn’t.

“There’s something wrong with it,” she says, leaning on the couch arm. “There’s something wrong with this whole town.”

It’s not right, as the days turn towards fall and August wanes with the moon and the lake gets thicker every day, and Clint just sits there and watches it.

“Was Steve always like this?” she asks.

“Like what?”

“Stupid.”

Sam laughs the laugh of a man who knows what she means all too well. “Stupid, yes,” he declares. “Made a name for himself with stupid. Why?”

“Because he’s being stupid over Bucky and I’m worried.” It all started with Bucky, Nat knows that much. Nothing was wrong before Bucky arrived.

No. Well. Everything was wrong, but nobody saw it except Nat and Clint. Everything was wrong, but in a hidden way. Bucky came along and started picking at the fabric of things, peeling back the old yellow wallpaper to reveal the lunatics hidden underneath. 

Sam’s an outsider. Maybe he sees something even Nat can’t. 

Sam snorts. “Stupid over Bucky, stupid over Matt in Legal or Pete in forensics or Richards from the charity auction--Steve’s always stupid over some guy or another. Nothing to worry about.”

He doesn’t see it, then. 

Maybe it’s only her. Maybe she’s paranoid.

But then she thinks of Clint, keeping vigil by the lake, and knows she isn’t. Something’s gone sour in this town, and it might be Bucky or the circus or Sam himself, she doesn’t know. All she sees are the symptoms.

“Why?” Sam asks. “He givin’ you trouble? Cause I can kick some sense into him, if he’s givin’ you trouble.”

She shrugs. “He’s okay. Not really different. Just a little older around the eyes. Have you met Bucky?”

Sam shakes his head. “Heard an earful about him. Met him, no. Not yet.”

“Mm.”

The man gets to his feet, and Nat flinches and almost loses her balance. Flinches, like some little girl or cat startled by a noise. Sam looks at her curiously, doesn’t comment.

“Tell you this about Steve,” he says. “Dunno if it’ll count for anything, but when he was a kid--he grew up in a state home, y’know--when he was a kid, he had this friend who died. Jimmy? Jamie? Something like that. He’s held on to people real hard since then. Gets attached fast, and won’t let go. Maybe that’s why he looks so weird to you--first time you see him like this.”

“Maybe,” she allows, and lets him out. He touches two fingers to his temple, and she half expects to hear an _Evenin’, Ma’am_ come from his lips, but it doesn’t, and then he’s climbing into his red big-city car and driving away, back across town to his dingy motel room, no doubt.

While she’s out and all, she goes round the house to spy on Clint, who’s still crouched in the same place. She watches him for a while, hands on her hips. 

He’s rocking back and forth, nursing a bottle. Empty ones are scattered around him. He’s wearing Wanda’s scarf, his only concession that it’s cold. At least someone’s looking out for him.

Nat folds her arms around her empty stomach, her sick heart reminding her of September 7th. September’s coming fast. 

But.

Butbutbutbutbutbutbutbutbut.

“Hey,” she calls, bare feet moving across cooling grass, her body telling her what he mind doesn’t want to hear; it’s only going to get colder from here. He’s gonna freeze soon. 

Clint looks up, blue eyes bleary and distant and rimmed in red. He’s got wrinkles she doesn’t remember. 

“You eaten today?” she asks.

He reaches out a hand, shaking, trembling, a big hand that looks weak anyway, and she takes it with a sigh and the realization that this man is a mess and it’s all her fault. She thinks about how Sam said Steve holds on to everything; meanwhile, she holds on to nothing. And things are changing. 

Time she changes, too.

“Come inside,” she sighs. “Leave the lake alone, I won’t let it hurt us anymore.”


	18. another step, another fall, another foot down

Wanda dreams in red. Wakes up, surrounded by red.

Pietro. The sticky blood. The memories of her father’s German ramblings still dull in her ears.

Morning again.

She gets dressed, and dresses her brother. He needs her help this time, and she laces up his shoes carefully. He doesn’t like them too tight. 

They eat. 

“I have to work today,” she says, leaning over him to clear the ketchup and salt and pepper and butter. “And I’ll be later coming back than usual--I’m stopping by the circus.”

“Again?” Pietro asks, his hand resting on her waist. He runs his fingers over her short skirt. “Dressed like that? Do you have a boyfriend?”

There’s a note of jealousy in his voice. She takes his hand away and places it on the table.

“We’ve talked about this, love, remember?” She starts to run hot water in the sink, for the dishes. “It’s just for a week, then everything will be back to normal.” 

Because this is normal. She holds back a manic laugh.

“How long’s a week?” her brother sounds confused. “Wanda, I can’t--”

“Don’t you think about it,” she instructs, kissing his forehead. “Go play a video game--I’ll be in to say goodbye in a few minutes.”

She cleans up, finds her purse. Says goodbye to her twin, who’s absorbed in Legend of Zelda and hardly notices her. He lets her go easily this morning. She steps out onto the cinder block that serves as a front step, shuts the screen door behind her with difficulty, and turns to find The Vision standing there.

She almost falls off the block. “You!”

“Hello,” he says, offering a hand to help her balance. “I apologize if I startled you.”

It’s strange to see him in her barren front yard, as opposed to surrounded by the opulence of his tent. It’s strange to see him in a pullover and jeans, as opposed to billowing robes and tight bangles. It’s strangest of all to see his cinnamon, scarred skin without garish paint or jewels to obscure it.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, stunned.

He looks like a man. He never looked like a man before. She never saw him that way.

Without the rouge of makeup, she can clearly spot his blush. “I had thought . . . I had a passing thought that I would like to see you,” he says. “I can leave, if you would prefer.”

She thinks it over, and sighs. “Of course not. But I’m going to work. I can’t be late.”

He offers his arm. “Shall I walk you?”

His body is solid. For some reason, she always expects to find him made of smoke or some other intangible material; something that can’t be touched, since he looks like he can’t be touched. But she’s always wrong, and he’s always realer than anything else--much, much realer than Pietro, and the memory of his hand caressing her body like he owns it.

“You look troubled,” the Vision says quietly. “Truly, if I am a bother--”

“You aren’t,” she interrupts. “It’s my--it’s someone else. On my mind. I’m sorry, I’m not myself today.”

He ventures a smile. “Then who are you?”

“I wonder,” she mutters, and turns it around on him. “Who are you?”

“Two more days,” he reminds her. 

“One, after this,” she says. 

“Two. You must still visit me tonight.”

“Right now doesn’t count?”

“ _I_ came to see _you_ ,” he says. “I thought . . . we left things troubled, last night. It did not sit well with me. I upset you.”

She shrugs. “You can’t see where telling someone they have no future might be upsetting?”

He thinks about it. He actually has to think about it. It’s little things like this that contribute to her notion that he isn’t human at all.

“Well,” he says, after some time has passed, “that never occurred to me.”

She speeds up, a little miffed. He goes after her.

“Wait--let me explain,” he says, catching her arm. “Wait, Wanda.”

She stills, and cocks her head up to look at him, interested in hearing his explanation.

“I tell fortunes for a living,” he declares. “Good, bad--they all blend together in my mind. I am so used to delivering them that I rarely think of the consequence . . . I rarely think of my audience. It is an appalling habit, I admit, but when I see so many faces--they all blur together.”

“And?” she demands. “So?”

“I would have lied to you,” he admits. “If it had come to me earlier. I would have lied. But I did not think to lie, because I never do.”

She elbows out of his hold and walks off, still annoyed. The words do nothing to soothe her. 

“What else could I have done?” he calls. “What is it that you want to hear?”

“The truth!” she cries back, frustrated. “The truth, that you’re making this all up--for crap’s sake, ‘Vision’, you’re just a performer! You’re just trying to scare me or fuck with my head or whatever and you’re making it sound like you had no choice! But you could have made up a different fortune!”

He looks like he was just struck. “You--” he stammers, his entire face going crimson. “You think I’m a liar?" 

It’s the most emotion she’s ever heard from him. His milky, strange eyes are round with indignation, and his jaw clenches and unclenches, stressing his Adam’s apple. “I am not a liar!”

“People can’t really tell the future!” she shoots back.

His nostrils flare. “If that is what you think of me, then you can forget coming to my tent,” he says coldly. “Even if I tell you my story, you clearly will not believe a word I say.”

“No--”

He’s the one who stalks away this time, like he has any right to be angry. 

She fumes the whole way to work.


	19. spin, swirl, shake; like darkness, fall

Steve meets Bucky outside the diner, grins, takes his arm. 

“How are you?” he asks.

“Since yesterday?” Bucky shoots back, ever-present cigarette in his hand. Steve plucks it away without a second thought. 

“Don't you ever get tired of that?” he asks. “You're killing yourself.”

That strikes Bucky as funny; he laughs, throwing back his head and releasing the raspy sound into the night air. “I'm killing myself,” he repeats, and shakes his head. “How's--” he pauses, lingering over the name, “--Sam Wilson? The affable city boy with a clear hard-on for you?”

“He has no such thing,” Steve declares.

Bucky digs his fingers into Steve's biceps, tighttightight, and gives away that stupid lazy smile that kills Steve every time. “You should have learned by now, Rogers. Everyone has a hard-on for you.”

“You don't.”

“I don't?”

“Well, you hide it well at the very least.”

Bucky bears down on Steve's shoulder, forcing him to lean down, and presses his lips to Steve's cheek. He pauses on his way back, brushing against Steve's ear like it's nothing: “Who's hiding?”

But he doesn't kiss Steve, and that's frustrating.

“Let's go somewhere,” Bucky proposes, drawing back. He digs another cigarette out of his pocket, but doesn't light up, his dark eyes sliding to gague Steve's reaction. “What do you think?”

“Go where? The circus?”

“Down to the lake.”

“Why?”

“Do you have to question everything?” Bucky grins. He seems to like the part of Steve that questions everything—at least, Steve hopes so. 

“It'll be dark.”

“Exactly.” Bucky's smile widens. He links his hand in Steve's and tugs gently, leading him away from Tony's. 

As they walk down Main St., Steve's eyes keep playing tricks on him. He sees panicked faces in the windows of the houses, but when he looks again, nothing is there. They pass Mr. Parker, and for a second Steve could swear there's blood splattered across the front of the man's shirt like a tangled spider's web; and then it's white again.

Nat's house is surrounded by a dark miasma, the tendrils curling in and out of the windows and doors, filling the space with the smell of rotting flesh—Steve blinks, and the house is the same pristine, freshly painted building he remembers.

The lights fade away, and the shadows lend to Steve's delusions, creating dark monsters that leer at him from behind trees and under Nat's porch; specters that wind around Bucky like he's their master. 

Steve shivers, and then Bucky looks back at him and smiles, sending a jolt of excitement straight to Steve's abdomen. He scolds his overactive imagination.

The woods are on their right, but Bucky doesn't seem concerned as he dives fearlessly through the trees, walking the narrow line between the lake and the forest proper. They get further and further from Nat's house, approaching the border of town.

Steve slows down. “Buck, are we going somewhere in particular?”

Bucky halts. “No.”

“Then can't we stop here?”

Bucky reaches out and touches Steve's collarbone, pulling Steve's t-shirt down slightly. “Here?”

Steve swallows, surprised by the sudden contact. “Um. Yeah.”

Bucky slips his fingers under Steve's collar, running the pads over Steve's bare skin. “You want to stop?” he asks quietly. His other hand goes around Steve's waist, under his leather jacket, warm even through Steve's shirt. “You want me to stop here?”

He isn't playing fair. Steve isn't in a position to call him out on it. His pulse is pounding fast enough to power a city generator, and his eyes keep catching on Bucky's lips like a sock on velcro.

Nat told him to think less about sex, but with Bucky it's impossible. When Steve's around him, all he thinks about is sex. 

He leans in, inches from Bucky, their noses touching, Bucky's hands still up Steve's shirt--

Bucky steps back, laughing. “C'mon,” he urges, bringing his hands back to himself. He beckons Steve to follow him. “Just a little farther.”

“Not far enough,” Steve mutters, frustrated. But he follows Bucky all the same.

Bucky's back is rippled with the moonlight glinting off the water, and it seems to flash off him like he's reflective. He's brilliant, bright, shimmering, barely human.

_Not human._

Steve's head is getting muddy. The longer they walk, the colder it gets, and yet his chest is burning so hotly, he half expects to see a dying star lodged there when he looks down.

Bucky's hand is tight around his, painfully so, squeezing his fingers in a vise. The man is smaller than him, younger and slighter, and yet Steve has the feeling that he's being towed along by an unstoppable force.

Anticipation builds in him with each step. For all of Bucky's words, he clearly has a destination in mind, and once they get there—once they get there--

Steve shouldn't, but he finds himself lost to the fantasy of Bucky's cock nudging the back of his prostate, massaging him from the inside; Bucky's open mouth closing around his throat and jaw; a cacophony of indecent moans rises in his head until he can't hear anything else.

The Bucky in his imagination whispers, _You are breathtaking_ , and he's gone, gone, so lost that he hardly notices Bucky pressing him into a tree until it's over.

“Almost there,” Bucky whispers, palming him above his jeans. “You're hard, you know.”

“Didn't notice,” Steve grit out, determined to hold on to his sarcasm, if not his dignity, to the very end. 

Bucky wiggles his fingers, sending a ripple of excitement down Steve's thighs and through his abdomen, and then steps back. “Hold on a little longer, cowboy.”

His head isn't his own head, his brain spitting up ungodly thoughts as he blindly follows Bucky. The throb of _sex, sex, sex_ pounds through his brain as steadily as a noise machine, and all he can think about is Bucky's lips on a cig, and the ragged edges of his laugh, and the few little things he's shared about himself while they've sat on the hood of Steve's car, listening to Bob Dylan through the open windows. 

He's an only child, and he used to play the harmonica. He'd been wandering for a long time—maybe years—before he stepped foot in Tony's Diner. He's the quiet frame of the noisy diner crowd, giving thin smiles and steady service and silent middle-finger salutes in response to Clint's jeers. He smokes like a chimney.

He loves Steve. He never mentioned that part, but Steve knows it. It's a misguided, blind sort of love that has nothing to do with character traits or similar backgrounds or the need for companionship—it's immature, based solely on what Bucky wants Steve to be, but that's how Steve loves Bucky, too, so it comes out even.

He's thinking about all of these things in an attempt to drown out the marching band in his head which insists, with trombone accompaniment, that he fall to his knees and suck Bucky off right now, screw reason and common sense because that is obviously where this is going.

They're heading out of town, but Steve isn't prepared to see that yet. All he's prepared to see is Bucky, taking him to that magical spot where they'll finally get to fuck.


	20. the dry part (the dry heart)

_What are you?_

Tony bites the end of his pen. He's looking at the damn ledger book again, but the columns are nothing but distractions. He'd been tempted to wait in the strong-man's tent until after the show last night, but he chickened out. It's all he's been thinking about, all day.

What he saw wasn't normal. People don't see into other people's heads when they kiss. But Tony did—as implausible as it sounds, even to himself, he did. 

“What's up?” Nat leans on the counter, without Steve for once, her gun clacking against the counter as she does. She pokes the wrinkle in Tony's forehead. “Accounts again?”

“Can you do me a favor?” he asks.

“Sure. What?”

“Kiss me.”

It's Nat, so she hardly bats an eye, just leans over and kisses him. And, again, it's Nat, so she doesn't stop at a peck. She swirls her tongue over his lips, sucks gently until he lets her in, and proceeds to have a field day before pulling back, swiping the back of her hand over her mouth.

Tony supposes this is the part where he should be incredibly turned on, but he's not. She looks similarly unimpressed. 

“I've had better makeouts with my pillow,” she remarks. “Care to tell me what that was about?”

“An experiment,” he says. “A failed experiment.”

“Hey, I wasn't that bad,” she says. “You were the one sitting there like a sad sack.”

“I _am_ a sad sack,” he moans. “Diner's in the tank, Clint's missing, Steve's gone over some dishwasher, and apparently I can read minds.”

“You can read minds?” she asks, instantly fascinated. “How does that work, exactly? Can you read mine?”

“No,” he mutters. He explains to her about Bruce, what happened in the tent; the strange images and the strong-man's reaction. “It just felt normal,” he confesses. “Whatever was happening . . . it felt so natural, like I was seeing my own thoughts instead of his. But what happened was anything but normal.”

She hmms, hiding her mouth behind steepled fingers. Maybe she's afraid he'll kiss her again and see something he shouldn't. “Maybe you're a mutant.”

“Try to be helpful, will you?” 

“Maybe it's just him,” she suggests. “Not you. Maybe there's something inside him reaching out for you, and something in you reaching out for him, and you connected.”

He gives her an incredulous look.

“It's just a theory,” she says. “Mind reading is impossible, right?”

“Right.”

“And yet it happened. So. We aren't really in a position to be judgmental, are we?” She raises an eyebrow.

“No,” he admits. “But you still sound crazy.”

“You sound crazier!”

They fall silent, Tony focusing his eyes on his black notebook, Nat drawing idle circles on the counter with her finger.

“Want a slice of pie?” Tony offers, which is maybe why he's doing so badly, and she nods.

He cuts her a piece of apple and sticks it on a plate. Just as he's sliding it over, the door opens—bell jangles—and the strongman walks in.

Nat's eyebrows practically touch her hairline, and she pulls Tony halfway over the countertop to hiss, “That's him, isn't it? That's him!”

Tony nods, extricating himself from her prying fingers. “Stop making a scene.”

“He's hot.”

“You can leave now. If you see Clint--”

“Tell him to come to work.” Nat waves him off. “Got it. See ya.” She takes the pie off the plate, stuffing half of it into her mouth, and winks at Bruce as she passes him. She's gone sooner than Tony would have liked, for all that he kicked her out. He doesn't actually want to be alone with Bruce.

The strongman approaches the counter slowly, his face still closed off. Tony wonders if there isn't some truth to Nat's theory that this thing, whatever it is, is mutual.

“Hello,” he says. “Um, about yesterday--”

Bruce holds up a hand and shakes his head. No words accompany the gesture, which Tony finds disconcerting. He hardly noticed how much the other man was saying before.

The strong man takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Tony. Then he turns around and walks back out of the diner. Tony's eyes stay on his leather-clad   
back until it's out of sight.

The paper—an envelope—isn't even for Tony. He stares down in frustration at Wanda's name, written in a curling, cursive script he instinctively knows isn't Bruce's. What was the point of all that? 

He stuffs the envelope into the register and forgets about it.


	21. interlude

“That was immature,” the Vision observes.

The Strong Man just grunts, shaking his huge head in rejection of his friend's declaration. 

“Just talk to him. Like you do to me.”

_Just talk to_ her. _Like you do me._

“Ah, but that is my problem. I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, everyone, for reading this far!!


	22. all habits die hard

Clint's been crashing on her couch for two days now.

She would have kicked him out before now—he would have driven her to that point—but he isn't himself. He doesn't laugh or cook or do anything but sit by the window and watch the lake, accepting the food and coffee she brings him, sleeping sporadically but always long after she's gone to bed. 

“Tony can read minds,” she says, trying to engage him.

He nods absently, eyes out the window. 

“Isn't that ridiculous?”

He shrugs. 

“Clint.”

“Natasha.” 

He says her name so suddenly, it makes her jump. After a string of attempted conversations, she wasn't really expecting him to become involved in this one.

“What?”

“Pietro Maximoff is standing in the lake.”

Nat's silent fear, the one she's been actively fighting for the past week or so, rears its head and hisses triumphantly. Clint, she realizes, truly has lost his mind. She doesn't know what's prompted the psychotic break, but he's gone crazy.

“Honey,” she begins.

He beckons for her to join him a the window. “Come on. See for yourself.”

She goes, but fearfully, smoothing his short hair and leaning into his inviting arm as if that could heal him. She goes, and she looks, and the lake is as empty as Tony's Diner.

Clint waves. “Wave to him, Nat. The boy's been through enough.”

“Clint, sweetie--”

He looks up at her with watery, confused blue eyes. “What?”

And she can't tell him. She can't tell him that Wanda's brother has been dead since September 7th, that they found his body in the trailer, curled up next to his sister like he was just sleeping; can't tell him that the twins' father was found dead, too, because if she has to relive the events of September 7th, she'll remember everything else that happened on that day and she's been avoiding it for months now.

So she kisses him instead, because it's the only thing she can think of to do; desperately running from the insanity around her. Tony reading minds. Steve in love. Clint seeing a dead boy. 

And Nat. Nat, and the 7th.

Clint wraps his arms around her waist with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, practically crying into her mouth, tackling her to the couch in one fluid motion.

He repeats her name over and over again as she knots her hands into his shirt, their mouths meeting in messy kisses again and again. It's been almost a year, but she still remembers. 

She almost freezes up when he whispers, slow and eager at the same time, “No condom,” because she's been here before, they've done this and it doesn't end well; but in the spirit of escapism she pretends she doesn't see history repeating, and tightens her grip and tells him it's fine and yanks at the waistband of his pants, not sure if she wants this to be over already or go on forever.

His stubble scrapes across her neck, but his mouth is soft and he closes his arms around her like he used to, like he—a shitty short order cook—could protect her, the big bad cop. Like he can fix any of this.

“Tell me you aren't crazy,” she says, the words wrenched out of her along with half a sob and a small gasp as he works his fingers into her from behind, clamping her hips to his body with an iron grip.

He pulls away for long enough to give her a look, one eyebrow raised: all skepticism, all Clint. None of the vagueness or paranoia of the man watching the lake just a few minutes earlier. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” she assures him, pulling him in for a kiss. His kiss is nothing like Tony's, although Tony likes boys and Clint has never been shy about the fact that he's crazy for her, so there's really no comparison.

He kneads her ass with one hand, not exactly clumsy, just rough. Just Clint, and God, how long has it been? 

She instinctively arches against him, searching for friction between his fingers and her clit, and he pulls his hand away, playing his damp fingers across her chest and laughing when she smacks him for being a tease.

“I missed you,” he says quietly, all rumbly and deep and still clinging to her like a prize, and what, does he think she didn't miss him, too? He kisses her before she can shoot back a smart comment, taunting her with the brush of his cock between her legs, thin underwear between them.

She knows how this goes. She's been here before. It's all so familiar; the tease, the banter, the underlying feeling that nothing will ever be as great for them as this. She doesn't say she loves him, but with every whimper and annoyed sack and beg for him to “just fucking put it in, bastard!”, she's saying it, and he knows it, because his responses—ear nips and low chuckles and a roll of his hips—tell her that he loves her, too.

But that was never the issue.

He's the only man to make her scream, the sound torn from her like the dying of an animal, and it isn't until she comes down from it, feels the painful wrench of him pulling out and the warm, strange wetness that stays inside her afterwards that she remembers what the issue was.

She stumbles to her feet, shoving away his sweaty and confused body, lurching to the toilet.

Throws up. The floor is cold after the explosion of heat to her system. She slaps Clint when he comes in to check on her and he falls back, lurking a few steps outside the door.

It's only been seconds, but Nat knows already. It's begun.

“FUCK YOU!” she screams, because Clint's the only one who makes her scream, and his baffled face does nothing but fuel her rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story has gone in so many directions it's got a mind of its own . . .  
> you guys are awesome for following it xoxo


	23. once upon a time a man named victor shade lost everything and that's the whole story, really

He wants this to be love, so certainly he wants this to be love, and his brain and pulse and quivering hands tell him that Wanda Maximoff is the one but every time he reaches for her, something pulls her away.

She always says she has someone waiting.

Who?

The days are ticking down, now. Soon enough she'll see him and then--and then what? The Vision doesn't know. Doesn't dare hope.

He used to be beautiful, but now he's ugly and worth only what he brings in for the show; hides his life behind the riddles of others' and tells them what they think they want to hear, but it's always the truth. Disguised, softened, just the tiniest bit hidden, but still the truth.

He wanted to tell Wanda the whole truth, but not yet, not yet, there isn't time for that yet. She has to come tonight; she can't break the cycle. She has to come.

Surely she'll love him, for all that death clings to her like the stench of garbage. Surely, at long last, someone will love him. 

He waits. Two more nights, provided she comes to him now. Two more nights, and three until the circus closes for the winter and nests in like a bird coming to roost. Not much time left now.

She has someone waiting for her, but the Vision is waiting for her, too. Waiting and waiting until the first notes of music begin, the ringmaster testing the sound system, the gong that summons the performers to the Big Top--and she hasn't come.

Tony didn't give her the envelope, he thinks bitterly. If he had, she would have come. He should have known better than to send the strongman. The Hulk's too caught up in his own love, his own distress.

He makes his way out of his tent, the disappointment palpable on his tongue, coating his mouth in bile, his sick stomach turning over and over with disgust. He's so ugly. There's no hope left for someone like him; only this, the neverending cycle of towns and revolutions of the wheel as knives whiz--so close--to his head. Telling strangers petty stories about their futures that they won't believe anyway, taking hand after hand after hand but none that matter.

The flash of lights, so bright, so many colors, that it gives him a headache after too long. 

He drags his feet, treading carefully over the dusty ground, mindful of the dung animals sometimes leave behind. 

And then she's there, sneakers thump-thump-thumping and her long hair out of its usual bun, cheeks red from the effort of her flight; one second he's alone, and the next she has come to be in front of him, flinging her arms around his shocked body and drawing him to her, close enough that he isn't sure if the pounding heart between them is his or hers. She's never touched him before, unless it was brief and careful and nothing like this.

The air, the atmosphere, is cold; she is warm. She slides around him like a formless thing, soft and yielding and there, and she holds his head to her shoulder as his fingers dig into her back. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his letter slip from her grasp and flutter to the ground.

She found it. She read it.

He smiles. 

"Help me," she begs, and bursts into tears.


	24. show me (show man)

Tony paces restlessly, sure that he shouldn't be here, just as sure that he can't leave. He hears the show coming to a close, and knows that his time is getting short. 

His palms are sweaty, his stomach lurching with nerves and uncertainty. He's all twisted up with the fear that he's about to be rejected again, and he doesn't know if he could take that. 

No. He knows he couldn't take it. What he doesn't know is what he's going to do, to say, to . . . anything. That he's lost, he guesses. That he doesn't understand this any more than Bruce does. He just hopes the strongman listens.

Bruce comes in. Even though Tony's been counting the seconds, he still jumps. It's not his tent, but he still has the irrational sense that Bruce should have knocked, or something. But it's a tent so that's not really possible.

_Who let you in?_

"The--the ticket vendor," Tony stammers out. "Listen, I--"

Bruce shakes his head. _I know why you're here. But it's okay._

"It is?"

_It's not you. It's me._ Bruce's lips twist into an ironic smile. _I'm just not used to someone . . . normal . . . being able to hear me._

Tony's spent the last day and a half thinking about how not normal he must be; he gives Bruce an incredulous look. "I'm sorry? Because, last I checked, I was able to--"

_Because I forced the memories there._

Tony can hear Bruce, his voice, clear as a bell. It isn't just expressions anymore; it's in his head, surely as his own thoughts. "You forced memories onto me?"

Mind rape, much?

_It was an accident. I'm sorry. No one's been able to pull something so deep out of me before._

Bruce sheds his glittery show cape, starts to wash the green paint off his skin with a nearby bucket of water. _So now you know what happened. You can run away screaming, or whatever._

"I won't do that," Tony says. "I already guessed there was something off about you."

Bruce glances at him. His eyes are the same light brown as a double-cream coffee, hold the sugar; Steve's regular order. 

"I mean, it's strange," Tony amends. "But, in case you haven't noticed, so's everything else in this town. And I really--shit, I really like you. I want to know more, if you're still up for sharing."

_You'll be frightened._

"You'll be here the whole time."

_That may not be a blessing._

Tony doesn't care. Just like he doesn't care that he gets green paint all over his clothes and smeared on his skin and even in his hair seconds later: kissing Bruce is the most wonderful thing in the world, even when the memories start to pour in.

"Oh," he mumbles against Bruce's open mouth and rough, knived tongue, and then, " _OH_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _asdfghjkl two more chapters O.O_


	25. the bottom of the well

Pietro died.

A year ago now, Father climbed on top of Pietro and closed his hands around his own son's neck, and Pietro died a quiet, slow, clean death for reasons Wanda's never understood.

And when Wanda woke up and found what Father had done, she took a knife to his flabby and wasted body and sliced him to pieces, scattering the red hidden inside his veins like so much dirty dishwater.

She fell asleep beside her motionless, untouched brother; the red twin and the white; and when she woke up, he did too.

She's woken up to blood ever since.

The Vision moves through her house, cocking his head to listen to this or that. He stares straight through Pietro.

"If you're psychic, tell me," she challenges, "am I being haunted?"

He looks at her with sad, sad eyes. 

"No," he says. "You're the ghost."


	26. epilogue (there was a prologue, after all)

If you go all the way to the end of the line, past the big strip malls and rolling fields, until there's nothing left in your view but rotting trees and derelict buildings, you'll find the last town on Earth. And sitting at the end of the last town on Earth, the only thing between America and the Great Beyond, is Tony's Diner.

There you can get terrible food at worse prices. The ill-tempered short-order cook will grumble about his wife, who carried a baby to term through a miracle none of them can explain, and named it September and allows it to carry on crying when she knows full well he has work in the morning. You can tell he's happy, if you just look a little past his grumpy frown.

The owner, Tony, will complain loudly that his sole waitress took off with the circus months ago, and isn't he just too short-staffed, it's terrible, and his accountant--a big man with a gentle smile and no voice to speak of--will shake his head and roll his eyes, condemning his partner as a drama queen from his favorite chair by the now-broken cash register. 

The few patrons of the diner chat idly about the state of the lake, which apparently had been quite sludgy before clearing up overnight; and they'll whisper in hushed voices how it only cleared up when Steve Rogers' body surfaced in it, fully naked and drowned. The passing bus boy will wink at them, smiling a smile that's fit to charm the devil, twirling a cigarette between his fingers. 

This place, it might as well be hell. Nothing ever changes. Nothing ever happens. It's here that Sam Wilson finds himself lingering, stuck in the place Steve never wanted to leave; retracing the steps of his old friend in an attempt to understand why he died.

And Bucky, he thinks about moving on and thinks about staying, and thinks about the meal of Steve Rogers between his legs, knowing that the lust of their encounter will keep him alive for a very, very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _this is embarrassing. I thought I posted this chapter last year and then when I was re-reading my own story (yes, I do that, I know it's weird) I was confused because it wasn't showing the epilogue. And then I realized I'd never finished the epilogue. It's way too late now, but whatever, if anyone's still interested . . . enjoy._


End file.
